


ask me too what i do

by VoltageInside



Category: Where the Water Tastes Like Wine
Genre: Campfires, Canon Gay Character, Character Study, Cigarettes as gay code, Language of Flowers, M/M, Slow Burn, Yearning, more tags to be added as the story develops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24315469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoltageInside/pseuds/VoltageInside
Summary: the storyteller is a light, and cassady is just another hopeless moth drawn to him.(a story exploring a relationship between the storyteller and cassady — one of unfair comparisons, desperate attemps at hope, and an undercurrant of uncertain yearning and quiet longing between two gay men in 1930.)
Relationships: Cassady/Traveler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. don't condemn your poet for a crime;

**Author's Note:**

> what if i........ wrote a love story that gave cassady and the storyteller a connection that brings them back to each other no matter how many times they walk away?
> 
> ch 1 takes place between chapter 3 and 4 of Cassady's story.

It’s getting late. 

Cass should’ve had a fire made an hour ago. Night’s falling so fast that soon it’ll be too dark to see what he’s doing. It’s not really his fault; it was difficult to find wood dry enough to fuel a real fire, and the only kindling he has is half a newspaper in his bag. He’s managed to find a secure place to build; the dirt is loose, and with a few gentle stamps to pack it down, it makes for a decent place to light a campfire, so long as he keeps his back turned to the cornfield and his eyes on the road. 

Cass’s kneeling down to light the kindling when he spots a figure taking slow, uneven steps down the road, their shoulders hunched and head dipped low. Every so often, they twist, like they’re checking over their shoulder, as if expecting something to follow after them, as if pursued by a tireless hunter. 

Further up the road, the figure turns their head towards him, lifting their nose up into the air, probably smelling - or seeing - his campfire’s smoke as it catches and comes to life. The figure hesitates, freezing in place, a black void watching smoke curl from the fire like a jackrabbit in the desert watching a coyote skulk nearby. Several moments pass before their jagged limp is directed towards the fire and Cass. 

Cass pushes down a shiver, watching this unnerving shadow slink closer, drawn to the light that staves off the swallowing blackness of night, pausing only once to check over their shoulder again.

It’s daunting, the wave of relief that floods Cass’s veins when the fire illuminates the stranger’s form, flames licking over the cut lines of the familiar face of the storyteller. That relief swiftly twists into gnarled worry, fear for something other than himself, as he gets close enough for Cass to make out his features in the night. The storyteller looks unwell; deep shadows are cast across his face, more gaunt than usual, sunken at the eyes and temples, his strange gait revealing itself to be a pained limp from an injury Cass can’t see. When he’s within hearing distance, the storyteller stops moving, as he does every time, respectfully waiting for an invitation by the fireside, despite being curled into himself with clear discomfort.

“Plenty of room by the fire,” Cass calls, and the storyteller’s body  _ sags _ , relieved maybe, as he closes the distance between them. Instead of sitting across the fire, he comes to sit by the side towards Cass’s left, closing the distance between them as physically as he does mentally. He lowers his stick and bag to the ground first, and after checking over his shoulder again, he takes great care as he follows after his belongings, sitting with much effort and a soft, pained sound in the back of his throat. Concern rumbles through Cass again, and he doesn’t miss the white bandages striping across the storyteller’s hands and disappearing into his coat sleeves. “Are you okay?”

The storyteller’s dark, sunken eyes rise from the fire to meet Cass’s, and instantly the poet knows that he is  _ not  _ okay. 

“What happened to you?” He asks, soft. 

The storyteller sighs, tugs his hat from his head and places it gently atop his meager belongings. His voice is quiet when he talks, strained with effort and long-suffered pain. He tells him about a house, one seemingly abandoned, trashed with the same vigor of a tornado tearing through the place. How he found a pot of old stew on a stamped out campfire, potatoes and game congealed in a fatty broth, how his stomach had rolled at the scent of it, something off and sickly that coagulated in his nose, his mouth, his throat. 

“Nobody lived long, going ‘round eating strange food,” the storyteller adds, like an afterthought. But sleep, that he could get, and he’d settled down on a bed, piled with warm quilts, elevated from the ground by a beautifully carved frame. Cass understands the joyful sentiment; traveling doesn’t always mean a safe place to lay his head at night. The storyteller goes on; his head hits the pillow, and a strong gust of wind wrenches the door open, nearly off its hinges, and sharp, drawn-out  _ creak, creak, creak _ staving off sleep as he turned over in the bed. The sound was faint — a wild animal? The wind? A voice? 

“ _ Tailypo, tailypo, tailypo, _ ” whispers the storyteller, his eyes falling shut. Cass swallows thickly. 

In the doorway stood a canid-like creature. Black, ragged, with eyes red and unnaturally bright in the darkness, spittle dripping from its sharp fangs and drawn lips. And words, in his own voice, in his own head.  _ Tailypo, tailypo, who has my tailypo? _

“I ran,” the storyteller says. It’s not often he does, in the stories he tells; Cass has always admired his bravery, in that sense. He certainly doesn’t blame him for fleeing, this time around. “But when my feet hit the floor, I stumbled. Fell. Blacked out.” 

“Shit,” Cass breathes, unthinking. The storyteller’s lifeless eyes meet his, briefly, then flicker back to the fire. 

“I woke up in a pile of debris. Wooden boards, roof tiles, broken furniture, like the entire farmhouse had come down around me. It took a minute for the pain to sink in,” he says, tugging a sleeve up gently, the bandages long, twisting up his forearm, with no end in sight. “My arms, my legs, torn and rendered by its claws, its teeth.” 

The storyteller stops then, burying his face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs at his eyes as if to wipe away the tired lines, off-white peeking from under his fallen sleeves. Cass’s fingers twitch, aching to reach across, to touch, to feel, to soothe the agony that haunted him so deeply. There’s a moment of weakness, a crack in the foundation that is the quiet, strong, observant storyteller. Cass sees it, knows suffering like a lover, intimately, deeply, painfully. 

“Does it still hurt?” Cass asks.

He nods, his face screwed up even when his hands fall away, as if to emphasize how truly tired he is, how deeply the wounds affected him.

“Still hurts… every step aches so sharply, I can almost feel the teeth on my skin.” The storyteller shakes his head. “Can’t rest, can’t sleep, can’t stop to lick my wounds. I’ve been running since. I keep hearing its voice in my head, no matter how far I go. That quiet,  _ tailypo, tailypo, tailypo,  _ every time I draw breath into my lungs.” 

He falls quiet, then, and Cass almost hears the voice in the wind. Almost. The storyteller hunkers down a little more, makes himself a little smaller, becoming more shapeless as he tugs his coat tighter around his body. Cass only observes; the sight stirs something in him, something deep. 

“Listen,” Cass ducks his head a little, to encourage the storyteller to look at him, away from the fire. “You can rest here. I promise I’ll wake you if I see any weird dogs.”

The storyteller huffs a laugh then, filling Cass with odd pride. He lights a cigarette, offers it to the traveler once his own smoke joins the campfire’s in the night air. He watches those lips close around the cigarette, but the traveler doesn’t make any obvious inhale, like his mind’s wandered too far, or more likely, he’s too tired to remember what he was doing, staring deep into the dancing fire. He starts when Cass reaches a hand out, despite him keeping the movement low and slow. He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth too-quick, gives it back with a shaking hand. He folds his hands together in his lap, and Cass tries to watch the fire too. Tries not to stare. But when he reaches for his canteen, he checks in on the storyteller — he’s nodded off already, sitting up, the bags under his eyes looking darker than ever. Concern bubbles in his throat again, and Cass tugs off his jacket, folding it into a rough square shape and placing it down on the ground just off of his own hip. 

Cass calls for the storyteller, and he startles awake with a strangled, horrified gasp. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Come on, why don’t you lay down? I’ll watch your back. You can sleep now,” Cass says, his tone unfamiliar, laden with softness he’s only ever heard around Silas. And strangely, it doesn’t stir up the vehement storm inside him; rather, he beckons with a hand, guiding the storyteller down to his coat on the ground. His companion  _ falls _ more than he lays down, barely settles his head onto his jacket before he’s asleep. 

Cass doesn’t even bother trying not to stare, once he’s unconscious. He does check the road a couple of times, just to keep his promise, relieved everytime he finds it empty and devoid of any travelers or dogs, but that’s about as hard as he tries to keep his eyes off the traveler. 

He looks different from this angle, but also different from the last time they met. He’s still got that  _ tall, dark, handsome _ thing going on, of course, but he doesn’t look like the healthy actors on the movie screens. His neck is thin, tells a tale of too many skipped meals and too many miles between them. His face is more gaunt at the temples, along his sharp cheekbones, even along his jawline. His hair’s a little longer now, a little messy, stuck up wrong from being trapped under a hat all day. There’s an aching desire in the poet’s bones to reach out and brush his hair down. 

Cass’s cigarette burns unsmoked between his fingers.

Kind of odd, seeing the storyteller  _ not  _ telling stories. Odder still, seeing him sleep. This incredible man, who knew so many tales, who saw the world for what it was and shared them over the crackle of campfire, laying at  _ his  _ side, sleeping on  _ his  _ watch.  _ Trust _ , trust  _ they’d  _ built together, trust he’d  _ earned  _ telling his own truth, offering his own story to the man with the thousand stories. 

Once more, alone with his thoughts and unable to help himself, Cass compares him to Silas. 

He doesn’t quite know what it is about them that feels so similar that he keeps comparing them. Doesn’t know why he feels that compulsive need to compare the two. Of course he brings Silas up, talks about him, laments over his loss, but that’s not new. He’s done that before, with others, but he’s never actively  _ compared  _ others to Silas. 

After all, he’d felt so far above everyone else, for so long. How could anyone hope to compare?

And yet he still held the storyteller to Silas’s candle, more and more, casting a longer shadow the more the wax melted, the higher the flame rose. How similar they are, how different. Silas, with his curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and the storyteller, his hair black as night and his eyes matching. Yet they both tell stories with an eye for detail, how they can paint a picture so vividly with their words, how they can dig into the very fabric of a tale, of a  _ person, _ and draw out its true emotion, raw and real. 

Do they compare?

That’s what unsettles him, each time they meet. No one compared to Silas. No one. Except, perhaps, the storyteller. Has Cass felt so alive as he does when the storyteller goes quiet, watching his mouth as he talks, taking in every word he says? Wasn’t there something about Silas that felt like that? Sensitive eyes, silent nods? 

Maybe it’s the fact that the storyteller never wanted anything from him except for his voice. 

The most frightening thing is that Cass wanted to give it; wholly, utterly. Every word from his lips true, truths too honest and close to his chest to share with another just spilled into the campfire, because of those eyes, watching him, hanging from each word so attentively. He glances to the road, briefly, then turns his gaze back to the peaceful expression finally settling over the traveler as he sleeps. He watches his chest rise and fall, just barely — sometimes Cass feels a twinge of fear when those breaths go too long in between, like his breath comes as a reflex more than a necessity. He has to remind himself several times that the storyteller isn’t dead, but even still, when he sees his chest rise again, their exhales are synchronized. 

Something surges to the surface alongside the pain this time, adding to the long list of emotions the storyteller brings to light; like Silas, but… different, always different, just out of reach of his straining, stretched fingers.  _ Adoration _ , without the poisonous, wretched feeling that usually came with thinking about it, and any other emotion that came alongside love. 

That, oddly, makes him pause. He’d thought for so long that he knew all about love. That he was an expert in seeing it everywhere, in fonder smiles and brighter colors, how he’d taken whatever others would give him and translate that to _love,_ turning open hands and biting words into stanzas and verses and too many words and not enough reading between the lines. 

Maybe that’s what he’s doing here. Reading between the lines. 

He flicks the butt of his cigarette, long since fizzled out, into the campfire. He doesn’t reach for another; his hands come to rest instead on his knees, bent at the fingertips. 

It’s beginning to make more sense now, clarity coming with the breaths of the storyteller’s lungs. How wrong he’s been about it all.

Not that he’s surprised; he has a penchant for making the wrong choice, running from what’s right or good or better for him. But this, _this,_ this doesn’t ever feel wrong. Could he admit his own failure, to seeing love for what it was? Something different, this aching need to touch, to turn clawing hands and worn, dirty nails into tender caresses and gentle acceptance that fills the darkest vacancies in his mind and soul? To _give,_ to offer himself, his deep-set desires, his desperation to belong to something, to someone? 

Maybe that’s more along the lines of what love is. What he’s willing to give, over what he’s willing to take. Give, in the way that his hand slowly, hesitantly, leaves his knee, reaches across the vast distance between himself and the storyteller. Give, as his fingers finally run over the storyteller’s forehead, sliding through his hair and righting the mess left by his hat. It’s soft, thick, easy to fix, but that becomes less and less of an issue as Cass repeats the motion, smoothing down his hair again and again and again. He runs a thumb over his temple, distracted by the  _ simplicity  _ of it all, how caring for someone comes so easily after it’s been dormant so long, how the gentleness feels equally foreign and natural. How it leaves a soft smile on his face, a real one, entirely unforced. 

_ Giving,  _ that feels more right, in the realm of love. Maybe he’s been misguided, blind to what love  _ really  _ is. It’s not manipulating space in his chest to make room for a heart. It’s not what he’ll take, but what he’ll give, if love could still be given. And maybe the traveler gave love in his own way; in the way he was silent when he listened, or the way he remembered important details in his stories, like the color of his shirt or how hot and fresh the coffee was, or how he found Cass, over and over, on a road that never ends. 

And here, in the glow of the firelight, Cass gives freely, reaching a trembling hand to tuck stray hairs behind the storyteller’s ear before settling a hand on his shoulder, solid and warm, warding off creatures that haunt the spaces between the night’s shadows. Maybe love could  _ be _ that simple, if he let it. An easy question with a yes or no answer; it either came from him or it didn’t. Could it be that easy, truly? It didn’t change his capacity to  _ be _ loved or how badly he was hurt, but he could… he could... he could, he could, he could… forgive himself, maybe, for holding back, for allowing his sight to be so clouded from his pain. The way the traveler does, forgives his pain, forgives his loss, forgives him for loving Silas so profoundly, so powerfully, when he won’t forgive himself. 

All this, and he doesn’t even know the man’s name. 

It’s not enough to stop the desire welling in his chest, not enough to stop him from hovering close to the light that is the storyteller, a helpless moth drawn to another flame. But it is enough to remind him that their paths are only ever meant to cross, to intersect, that the blurring between the lines is only coming from his own blindness, left up for interpretations that will only ever end up becoming a verse on a page, a story between the lines he keeps trying to read, settling into the ruinous debris of his own words. 

The moon, the fire, the storyteller. Cass’s hand on his shoulder, the other bringing another cigarette to his mouth and lighting it. His watch tells him it’s nearly two in the morning. He’s getting tired, his eyelids heavy and his head heavy and his hands heavy and… and he shakes his head, determined to stay awake. He checks the road, but still nothing appears. Whatever hunted the storyteller either gave up the chase along the way, if it ever pursued him at all, or... Maybe it feared the fire, or more, feared  _ him,  _ respected the way he curled protectively around the storyteller, the way he bristled at the wind, ready to bare his teeth at anything that came too close -- dogs, people, smoke, memories. 

Three in the morning comes with foggy clarity, a second burst of energy to keep him awake and alert. Words, vaguely recognizable as poetry, roll through his mind like a typewriter, all of them about the storyteller. The way he talks, the way he listens, the way he sleeps. The color of his eyes, the cut of his shoulders, the litheness of his hands. Unfamiliar words. They’re not laced with the same hunger that poems about Silas always seemed to bear, no, they’re different. Lighter, gentler words, full of hope instead of fear. He’ll never remember it all, but it tugs at something in him, something deep, that burning need to write slowly flickering back to life, learning to breathe again alongside the rhythmic rise and steady fall of the storyteller’s chest. 

When the sun finally starts to rise, painting the sky with its first strokes of green and blue and orange and pink, the storyteller stirs. Seems even exhaustion isn’t enough to let the poor man sleep in a little, to escape the pain and horror for just a little longer. Cass lets his hand fall from his shoulder before he notices, letting it slide into his own lap uselessly. The storyteller blinks a few times at the dying fire. He puts a hand to the ground to push himself up, but hisses through gritted teeth and releases the pressure immediately as pain resurfaces to protest the movement. Cass’s hands clench into fists, if only to prevent himself from reaching out and helping him up. The storyteller rights himself, sitting up and rubbing his face with his hands. 

“Morning,” Cass says. When his hands fall and their eyes meet, Cass offers a small smile. “No dogs.”

The storyteller huffs a humorless laugh. “Thank you,” he replies, looking back to the dying fire, then off towards the eastern sky, taking in the sunrise. He looks good in this light, all sleep-mussed and peaceful. “I slept all night?” He asks, concern on his face when he looks back at Cass. 

Cass waves a dismissive hand. “You needed it.”

The storyteller doesn’t disagree, but he’s still got that sheepish look to him, like he regrets his own weakness. Or, at least, showing it to Cass.

Cass mentally scolds himself. That’s not how the storyteller is, and it’s wrong to pin his own insecurities to him. 

“Did you want to catch some sleep before you go?” The storyteller asks. Cass shakes his head. It’s not that he’s not tired - he’s plenty tired - but this isn’t about him. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll probably just get a room at a hotel,” Cass jerks a thumb over his shoulder, down the road from the direction the storyteller had come from. “Where are you headed next?”

The storyteller blinks blearily, then tugs out his map from his pathetically small sack of belongings. He leans over to invite Cass into his space, to show him the map. Cass leans in, and tries not to be too obviously bothered by their proximity; it feels… strange, now that he’s awake, now that… well, he truly doesn’t know. The storyteller traces a finger towards Indiana, further east, further from the beast that he encountered out west. He looks to Cass expectantly. Cass points towards Illinois. 

“I’ll be out this way, if you find yourself heading out here. Keep an eye out for me, okay?” 

The storyteller nods, slowly folding his map back up and tucking it neatly into his bag. Cass gets to his feet, and the storyteller follows after. Neither of them speak for a moment. It’s… hard, this time around, to say goodbye. 

“Are you well enough to travel?” Cass asks instead, unable to shake the worry rumbling like thunder through his mind. 

The storyteller offers a weak smile. “I’ll be okay. We will meet again.” 

His certainty, as always, is infectious. It soothes the anxiety that wraps around Cass’s throat, though he hesitates to pack his things and leave, never mind the fact he needs to get a move on. It feels… strange, like there’s something left unsaid. After all this time, all that Silas has done, and he’s still that shy, bumbling kid that can’t get all his words out. 

Cass digs the toe of his shoe into the dirt. 

The fire has died, so the storyteller grabs his stick and bag, placing his hat back onto his head. Cassady gathers up his coat, slipping it over his shoulders. The movement stirs up the scent of cigarette smoke and, fainter, but still present, something softer, something unfamiliar, something that can only be the storyteller. He has to stop himself from inhaling too deeply as he tugs the jacket on fully. He picks up his bag, kicking some extra dirt onto the campfire’s smoldering embers until there’s no life left. 

The storyteller watches, and Cass can’t help but wonder what he sees. His stories focus on so many small details -- what does he notice? Is it the crows, cawing as they awaken and take to the skies above the corn field? Is it the sky, the clouds painting vibrant streaks across a dawning gradient of blue? Or is it him, the deep-set lines in his face, the nicotine stains between his fingers, the lanky way he can’t quite fill out his own shirts? Or… can he see more? The storm clouds that rage in Cass’s mind spilling out around his head, the empty void in his chest, surrounded by claw marks and shreds of his ribcage? The longing that rises in his throat and closes off his breathing, everytime they make eye contact? 

Perhaps he’ll never know. The storyteller is a strange, wonderful mind, and even Cass’s best attempts will never be able to grasp the things that he sees. 

The storyteller’s hand brushes aside the clouds to lay on Cass’s upper arm, his smile as warm and gentle as his touch. 

“Be well, Cassady,” he says, and then he shoulders his stick and bag, and starts off down the road. Cass watches him go, his limp less pronounced, his body less curled in on itself, until he disappears over the horizon. 

Cass stares down at the ashes of the fire. Then, tugging his coat tighter around himself, he takes off down the road, putting ever-growing space between himself and the storyteller. 


	2. the one hand, the same earth;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> have you ever heard the story of buttercups?  
> have you ever wanted something so badly your hands shake?
> 
> or: a campfire, wildflowers, and the healing power of bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place mid-chapter 2 of cassady's story (and before ch 1/ don't condemn your poet). 
> 
> and a quote, for your consideration: "love is a mouth that goes hungry to feed your own."

The farm is small, but it’s successful, a portrait taken out of its own time; though whether it’s a whimsical memory of days past, or a hopeful glimpse to a future beyond the depression, the storyteller doesn’t venture to guess. The sky’s bluer than any sea, like he could jump through the air and swim his way to the sun. Clouds float by, leisurely and unhurried, providing occasional waves of relief from the sun’s rays, just on the border of too-warm and a dream. The farmhouse is pristinely painted white, its red roof without a single shingle out of place. The windmill turns steadily, without hurry. Cows graze across a verdant field, their coats shiny and sleek with good health, chickens clucking and pecking happily in the dirt of the yard. A shaggy hound dog laying on the porch raises its head as it spots a stranger coming up its driveway, warning the woman rocking on her rocking chair beside it of his arrival with a single bark. She watches the storyteller approach, until he’s within hearing distance of her. 

“Howdy, stranger. What brings you ‘round these parts?”

The storyteller tips his hat to her. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he greets, jovially. He adjusts his grip on the parcel he’s held tucked under his arm for the last hundred miles. “I’m sent here to find Miss Opal Greene.”

“Well, you found her. What’ve you got for me?” She asks, a curious glint in her eye as her guard is dropped and her interest is piqued. She pats the dog’s head as the storyteller steps up onto the porch and holds out the package to her. She doesn’t hesitate to rip it open once she gets her hands on it, and her jaw falls in delight when the simple brown paper packaging gives way to a beautiful, ornate jewelry box.  _ Smiley  _ is engraved in gold on the top, with intricate lines of pure opal that swirl through the wood and melt into flowers encrusted with gems. She opens the lid to reveal purple velvet lining and a letter, tucked away neatly. She doesn’t open it; rather, she passes it to the storyteller, who takes it dutifully. 

“Will you read this to me, dear? I’d have my husband or my son do it, but they’re in the city, buying new wheels for our wagon.” 

The storyteller carefully unties the twine bow wrapped around the letter and unfolds the paper. 

“‘ _ Smiley, _ ’” he begins, and she grins at that, leaving no question where she obtained the nickname. “ _ ‘Knowing you, this letter will find you alive and well, damned old hag.’”  _ Opal’s laughing, so he continues. “ _ ‘I planted those seeds, and we’ve finally got crops growing, for the first time in three years. I actually had to scare off a crow, only this morning! That calf of yours is also growing like a weed. She’s turning out to be a heifer worth the county prize. _ ’” 

“Miss Mae  _ always _ throws the hardiest calves,” Opal boasts, pride swelling her chest and tilting her chin up high. 

“ _ ‘We’ll be coming by once summer is over, all of us: Jude, Len, Betty, and the baby. That baby keeps reminding us how old we all are getting. How ever did we get here? Anyway, I hope this will be enough to show that yes, I  _ am  _ grateful for you. Don’t let it get to your head!”  _ Opal lets out a good-natured  _ “ _ harrumph!” “ _ Your delicate, beautiful blossom of a younger sister, Lefty.’” _

“Ah! Hahahaha!” Opal whoops, inspecting herself in the mirror on the inside of the box’s lid. “Why, traveler, I’m mighty grateful you ain’t run off with this package.” She takes the letter from his hands and folds it carefully, tucking it into the box and closing the lid. “Why don’t you stay for a meal, as thanks for your honesty? I’ll tell you all about Smiley and Lefty’s outlaw days.”

The hound lays with his massive head on the storyteller's feet as he sits at the kitchen table, warm sunlight streaming from the many open windows, while she busies herself working this ingredient and that into a pale dough. As she kneads, Opal doesn’t hold back, tells him about her adolescence spent with her sister, terrorizing the local population by playing pranks on their friends and neighbors. Their ma and pa couldn’t ever get a hold of them, and even though marriage and kids settled them down and separated them by a whole state, their reunions are filled with youthful delight and, perhaps most rewarding, teaching their tricks to the children of their children. She pours each of them an ice-cold glass of milk so fresh, he swears he can still taste the grass the cow ate that very morning, then she joins him at the table, where they waste time swapping one story for another of all their wildest adventures while the smell of bread baking in the oven wafts through the air. 

With the earliest signs of the sun setting behind the farmhouse, she waves him goodbye from the porch as he takes his leave down the road, with the soft, crusty loaf of bread and a hearty wedge of fresh goat cheese wrapped up and tucked carefully in his bindle. With the hospitable ex-outlaw and the farmhouse from a better time to his back, he settles for following the road away from the city, the sides of which are dotted with random freckles of tiny wildflowers. The further he walks, the more densely the flowers grow, until the grass itself is replaced with a blanket of white and yellow. His spirits high, he ends up whistling something to pass the miles, the happiest song he’s got. 

He’s startled out of his stupor when he lays eyes on a campfire among the flowers, and a familiar figure sprawled out near it, a book in hand. 

“Cassady!” The storyteller calls, and Cass looks up from his book, a smile splitting across his face when he recognizes him. 

“Well, well, look who shows up just when I need him most,” Cass greets warmly, then waves the book a little. “I read whatever I can get my hands on, but that doesn’t mean they’re always any good,” he laments, tucking a folded piece of paper into the book to save his place and quickly snapping it shut. “What good fortune brings you to my campfire again?” He asks, sitting up a little straighter. 

The storyteller takes his spot at the fire, near Cass, reaching for his bindle to untie it. “There’s a farmhouse up the way, I was just dropping off a package to the woman there.” He pulls out the bread and cheese, and tears the loaf in half as he asks, “Have you eaten? She gave me this, for my troubles, but it weren’t no hard work, if you know what I mean.” 

Cass’s eyebrows shoot up, like he’s surprised by the offer, but he takes his half of the loaf when the storyteller hands it to him anyway. “You’re sure? Well, thank you, really.”

The storyteller draws his knife to cut the wedge of cheese in half and offers the bigger piece to Cass. He wipes his thumb along the knife  _ carefully  _ to remove any residue of cheese, then tucks it away to eat. Cass compliments how the simple meal may be the best he’s had in his recent memory, and the storyteller’s inclined to agree; the cheese is tangy, creamy, sharp, and the bread is pillowy-soft with a crisp crust. 

There’s a brief moment of companionable quiet between them, backlit by the crackling of the fire and the familiar comfort in sharing a meal together. The storyteller’s attention falls to the flowers.

“Mason would like these,” he muses, trails the fingertips of his free hand over the little blossoms that surround them, a sea of sunshine and joy, keeping the two afloat. 

“The war veteran?” Cass asks around soft cheese and softer bread. The storyteller nods. “How is he?”

“Taking it day by day, like any of us, I reckon.” He smooths out some of the cheese with a thumb before taking a bite, small, like hunger isn’t a pressing matter. “He wants to grow plants, he told me. Don’t matter what kind. Flowers, weeds, shrubs, anything.” He hums, considering. “Plants respond well to real love like that. His garden’ll be a sight, someday. I’d sure like to see it.” 

His meal is only half-finished, but Cass has devoured his share already, hunger overtaking his desire to enjoy his food. The storyteller holds out his half, and nudges it closer when Cass’s brow furrows at him in confusion. “Here, go on, have it,” he encourages. 

“Nah, you should eat it, you need your strength,” Cass deflects, but it doesn’t hide the look in his eye, like a hungry junkyard dog. 

“It’s okay. She fed me plenty at that farmhouse, made a stew so rich that it would’ve knocked you over.” It’s a lie, but it’s enough to convince Cass to take the food with a humble  _ “thank you,” _ and this time, his bites are smaller. Savoring. The storyteller’s happy, at that. The bread was baked with love; it’ll be good for him.

He can’t help his worry about the poet. Cass could use a little kindness, a little care, and he sure didn’t give it to himself. There’s a feeling in his bones thrumming deep when Cass is near, like a consuming desire to  _ give, give, give  _ everything he has, everything he is. The storyteller wonders how far he’d walk to soothe Cass’s pain, but swiftly dismisses it, unable to do much else but bear witness to his story while he walks for the wolf. 

In the meantime, to keep himself from watching Cass eat, he plucks one of the thousands of tiny yellow flowers and brings it up close to his own face for better inspection. It’s perfect, every petal unmarred and vibrant, yellower and brighter than the sun, reaching up towards the clear blue sky. 

He recognizes it, now that he’s looking. 

“Have you ever heard the story of these?” The storyteller asks. Cass frowns. 

“No. What are they?”

“Buttercups.” He twirls the flower by rolling the stem between his thumb and forefinger, back and forth, watching the yellow twist and morph into one blurred shape over and over again. His lips twist up into a knowing smile as he slides his eyes to Cass. “They’re got a magic power, you know,” he purrs. 

Just as intended, it hooks Cass’s interest; he pauses in brushing the last of the bread crumbs from his hands, his brows shooting up. 

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense, here,” he implores, flipping his palms up in a ‘ _ come on _ ’ gesture. 

The storyteller tilts his head a little, his smile widening. “You gotta hold a buttercup up to someone’s chin to see if it glows yellow,” he explains, reaching out to hold the tiny little flower close to Cass’s chin, pleased at the bright spot of yellow reflecting back brightly. 

Cass’s eyes _sparkle,_ up close like this, completely entranced by his tale. “And if it does?” 

The storyteller glances between the flower and Cass’s chin, pausing only for the effect of it, then meets his eye, serious now. 

“Well, when it glows, it means you like butter,” he finally divulges. Cass rolls his eyes with a short laugh, gently shoving his hand and the flower away. 

“Oh, spare me, would ya?” he says, making  _ the storyteller _ laugh. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” He accuses, but betrays himself and any consideration of exasperation as he grins, the kind that reaches his eyes, the kind he so rarely allows himself to have. “Come on, let me see that,” he insists, reaching for the flower. The storyteller hands it over obediently. Cass inspects it for a moment, then grins wider, holding it up to the storyteller’s chin. “I think this one’s broken. It’s only telling me you need to shave.”

They  _ laugh _ , carefree and mirthful, real. The storyteller rubs his fingers against the shadowy stubble growing along his jaw. “You don’t like it?” He asks, feigning surprise. Cass purses his lips to stave off the lingering traces of laughter. 

“Now, I wouldn’t go  _ that  _ far _ , _ ” he recovers, tilting his head, like he’s reconsidering. “It’s becoming on you.” 

His eyes rove the storyteller’s face for a moment, just a moment, just long enough for something warm to dig down with sharp, frantic claws, and bury itself deep in the darker corners of the storyteller’s chest. 

But Cass shies away, in the end, turns his attention to the fire. “You’re good at this. It’s not often I get to laugh like that,” he laments, as his doubts begin to remanifest in his mind and tear down his meager attempts at happiness. 

It never proves easier, each time he ends up losing Cass to the things he can’t fight off for him, things like ghosts and regrets and too many things swallowed: words, hopes, dreams...

Just something else they got in common, he reckons. 

The storyteller doesn’t realize that he’s staring until Cass’s eyes meet his, questioning, darkened with uncertainty, like he’s still trying to figure him out. He skirts his gaze, towards the sun setting on the horizon. There’s still light of the sun left in the sky, still a chance for him to hang onto the poet, just a little while longer, before he falls back into the sucking blackness of Silas’s towering shadow and the choking hands of heartbreak around his throat. 

“Then tell me about another time you laughed like this, when you were happy,” the storyteller prompts, turning his eyes back to his companion. He speaks over the face Cass makes, before he can jump at the chance to question his own ability to  _ feel  _ happiness amidst the suffocating pain of his heartbreak. “It is hard work. Like the sadness, you have to accommodate for the happiness, too.” He plucks another buttercup, since Cass is still holding the original flower between his fingers. “Maybe you have to fight, fight to shove back all that hurt and anger and sadness, dig out one last place in the mud that the pain can’t reach you, but you don’t have to do it forever. The sadness, the storm, they follow you. But the sunshine...” he twirls the bright yellow flower between his fingers once, then tucks the buttercup into the pocket on the inside of his left lapel, where it rests just over his heart. “That, you must carry with you.”

Cass stares at his lapel, like he can still see the flower through the thick fabric, blinking owlishly back up at him. His eyes catch the light in a beautiful kind of way, like sugar-sweet iced tea on a warm, sunny afternoon. There’s a pink flash as his tongue darts out to swipe over his bottom lip, glancing towards the sunset. The storyteller lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. 

“The sun’s going down,” he comments, like he’s losing his chance to knock down one of the shining rays and claim it for himself.

The storyteller’s mouth quirks at that. He reaches out and his fingertips dust over Cass’s palm, coming up from underneath to take the flower from him by the stem, replaces his fingers with his own. Cass releases his hold with the quickness of being burned, his fingers twitching as the flower leaves his grasp. The storyteller doesn’t pay it any mind, reaching out to tuck the flower into the breast pocket of Cass’s shirt, and meets his eye, steady, easy, as he speaks, his tone mischievous, coy. 

“You’d better speak quickly, then.”

Cass stalls for as long as it takes for him to retrieve a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, leaning into the match the storyteller strikes for him to breathe it to life, their hands coming up to cup opposite sides of the flame to protect it from the wind. 

He offers the cigarette to the storyteller after his first draw, holding in his smoke while he takes it and inhales. They exhale in unison, and the storyteller returns his cigarette as Cass begins to talk. 

He tells a story of companionship, of being surrounded by people like him and wine drawing every mangled thought he’s ever had from his lips, of burning fire so hot it could raze towns, of the addiction he found in the high of adrenaline and rising above his station to become something other than himself. He tells a story of passion, of pouring his identity into the shadows of greatness, accepting the darkness that fell over his eyes as his own blindness, and the beauty of endless, shapeless black. He tells a story of a time that there was a flame that still flickered in his chest, back when poetry was all his lips could ever form, back when he never could seem to get rid of the lingering aftertaste of honey on his tongue. 

The traveler desperately leaps to catch him whenever his stories end, before he can drop out from Cloud Nine and plummet to the ground; just before the sorrow can set back in, he shares one of his many tales, tearing apart his memory searching for the right story to burn bright enough to lure Cassady back away from the pit of despair he so precariously dangled over. 

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t; it’s overly valorous to hope for anything more than that, that he could get a hold of him, that he could pull him back from the edge before the poet tips past the edge and pitches to the earth. His hands tremble. 

He never claimed to be the hero type. He just collects the stories, after all. 

Cass frowns when the sun starts to streak the sky with the first hints of light, glancing at his watch to confirm what he already knows. “Morning’s here already. I’ve got to get packed up and moving.” He looks to the storyteller, and a small smile passes over his face. “I’ve had it too good for too long, talking with you. But I got a lot of old memories stirred up now that are gonna start looking for answers, soon,” he tells him, vaguely waving a hand at his head. 

“That bad?” The storyteller asks, as they move to pack up Cass’s things. 

“Nah, no, don’t get the wrong idea. I like our chats. But I guess by now you must know me well enough to know that finding answers isn’t exactly my strong suit.” He tucks his book carefully in a side pocket of his bag, his brow furrowing, like he’s reconsidering the idea. “That isn’t going to stop me from looking, though.” 

The silence between them is short, heavy, filled with doubt and the blood drawn from crescent-moon shapes from nails curled too tightly into palms and nothing to do with it all. 

“What about you? Where are you headed next?” Cass breaks the tense uncertainty in the air, and the storyteller’s left with the phantom pain of fingers between his and his tongue too dry as he tries to form an answer.

“I’ll enjoy the fire a little longer,” the storyteller replies with a forced shrug; he hadn’t considered what he’d do next, but if he did, it would probably have something to do with the dreams that keep stealing away his sleep; the far end of a dead-end street, the glass face of a still ocean, the yawning black breath of a silent train. “Then I’ll walk until something points me in the direction I need to go, I suppose.”

Cass tilts his head, like he’s considering saying something about his faith in rolling the dice like that, but he doesn’t. He says instead, “Well, look for me if you head out towards Milwaukee. We’ll talk more.”

The storyteller bows his head. “I look forward to it,” he says, his warm tone betraying the feeling of chilling, selfish desire settling in his bones. 

He swallows down the sharp ache of ice in his lungs as he watches the back of Cass’s head, walking away from him. He lingers until long after the fire has gone out, then sets off on the hunt for the road that will lead him back to the poet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's one more planned chapter in this love letter of mine. i hope you're enjoying this hopeful tale, and thank you for reading <3


	3. healed by my song;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the road ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place end-of/post-game.

The dawn begins to break with a heavy shroud of finality and the distant sound of howling wolves. 

The sun starts peeking over the horizon with a flash of green, followed by the faintest of pale blue light beginning to bathe the edge of the desert. The storyteller follows Ray’s gaze towards the sunrise, follows him as he gets to his feet and dusts off his jeans. The outlaw gathers the reins of his skeletal horse, its jawbones clacking as it clicks its teeth together, black smoke billowing from its eyes and nostril holes as it snorts. Their last goodbye hangs heavy in the air between them, but they both know it cannot stay there for long. 

“Anyway… I gotta get a move on, amigo. Can’t stay in one place too long no more…” Ray sighs, breaking the tension as he rubs his brow just under the brim of his hat. “I got nothin’ left here no more. Gonna… head down to Old Mexico, an’ rest my feet a spell.”

He hoists himself up onto the horse’s back. It stomps its front hoof, a wild, impatient soul ready to make its final run. The storyteller pats its neck bones as Ray digs something from his saddlebag. He nods to the hand on the horse’s neck, and the storyteller gives him his open palm. Ray places something in it and wraps his fingers around it tightly, encasing his hand with his own calloused one. 

“Doubt we’ll see each other again, but I hope the best for you, amigo.”

The storyteller offers a grim smile and a handful of parting words; best he can do for a wanted man. “Be well, Ray. Ride fast.”

Ray nods, lets go of the storyteller’s hand and spurs his horse on with a “ _Hyeah!_ ”

The storyteller watches him go, long after the last of the dust he kicked up settles. With Ray gone, he can no longer ignore the howling of the wolf, growing louder in his head. He closes his eyes, as the wolves draw closer, their coats black as night and melding together into an amorphous mass of white fangs and red eyes. 

His eyes open just as the first of the jaws snap closed, so close he can feel its putrid breath on his face. He glances down to his hand, opening his fingers to reveal Ray’s gift: a small metal figure of a horse, tied with a red ribbon. It’s deceptively heavy for its size, and cool against his palm. He slides it into his coat pocket. 

He reaches into his right lapel, already knowing what he’ll find. He draws out the tarot card that awaits him. 

The Fool. _Reversed._

He’s not surprised, considering this is the sixteenth time he’s done this. He glances back to Ray’s campfire, taking in how ominously thick and black the smoke is, rising into the night and painting black clouds across the sky. He knows what he must do, but it doesn’t make it any easier to do it. He closes his eyes, briefly, breathes in the dry desert air one last time, and tosses the card into the fire. 

The Fool grins up at him the entire time it burns. 

The smoke billows as some unseen winds blows it towards him, pooling on his tongue and curling into his lungs. He doesn’t cough. Kind of the Dire Wolf to make this death painless, he thinks, as his eyes fall closed and his heart slows to a stop. 

When his eyes open again, he’s at the poker table. Dire Wolf is sitting across from him, shuffling the deck of cards. His lips curl into a grin as they lock eyes. 

“Congratulations! You’ve finished your task,” he croons. He tilts his head a little, one ear flicking thoughtfully. “I hope, in the end, you at least found it fulfilling.”

The wolf cuts the deck, carries on past the storyteller’s well-trained silence. “Hearing stories is important work. Everyone wants to be heard, and so few are listening.” He deals them each a hand, and places the rest of the deck to the side neatly. “Let’s talk once more before you go on your way.”

They each draw their cards. No matter how much he stares at them, the traveler finds his cards blank. They play anyway.

The storyteller places the metal horse in the middle of the table. The wolf tosses a shiny silver coin beside it. 

As they play, he tells the tale of the ghostly outlaw, the last spirit of the wild west lost to the curse of modernity and Manifest Destiny. 

Each hand comes with another trinket offered, another story told. The wolf asks his questions, makes his cryptic comments, but for the most part, he is pleased with the traveler’s work. Eventually, the storyteller looks down at his cards, and falls silent. 

The last hand. 

The wolf’s eyes meet his, sensing his hesitation. “There’s still one last story left to tell, isn’t there?” He asks, his eyes falling to the storyteller’s lapel. “Place your bet, traveler,” he encourages, his eyes glittering with interest. 

Another moment of hesitation. The storyteller checks his cards, but off-white emptiness stares back at him. With little other choice, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out the dried sunflower head, placing it atop the pile with great care. 

He tells Cassady’s story. 

He hears it in his own voice, the special care he takes in saying his name, in telling the tale of the broken-hearted poet’s dingy and battered truth and the couple in Frisco that lived their shining lie. He talks about the _real_ Cassady, the storm clouds rumbling dark and amassing into a vague man with too many arms typing miles of unreadable symbols on a typewriter flecked in blood, and a black hole where his face once was, gaping and devoid of life and light. He tells the wolf about the last time they met, their final goodbye, and how empty the road’s been since. 

The wolf calls. They show their hands. The storyteller looks at his cards, splayed out proudly before him. He almost laughs.

Royal straight flush. Spades. Aces high. 

“Quite the hand. And with that, the last night of your journey comes to a close,” The wolf growls, teeth bared in that ever-present grin. “Take your winnings, and with them, your freedom.”

The traveler reaches across the table, gently grabbing the sunflower and tucking it back into his lapel. As he gathers his things, the wolf shuffles his deck — when he watches closely, the cards quickly morph from the four suits to the tarot cards. 

The wolf meets the storyteller’s eyes, asks: “What of your name? Will you bear it once again?”

The storyteller pauses.

The wolf, too, pauses. 

Then, the moment of hesitant uncertainty passes. 

The storyteller folds his hands together, considering. He hadn’t thought about it, much; being nameless had suited him just fine on his travels. Even now, his old name is a long forgotten memory. Feels wrong, somehow, to take it back up, even if he did remember what it was in the first place. 

“Reckon I haven’t much considered it,” the storyteller tells him, truthfully. “Haven’t thought much about what I’ll do after this. Guess I’ll start with waking up tomorrow.”

The wolf chuckles at that. 

“Before I do, I’d like to ask you one favor,” the storyteller adds, and the wolf’s ears prick up. “The beat poet… His story… I’d like to see how it ended. Where the road took him, after the last time we met.” 

The wolf hums, his hands stilling as he stops shuffling his tarot deck. “Don’t you recall your own goodbye? You said it yourself. He’s tucked away, somewhere between the water and the train tracks.” The wolf pauses, chuckles a little. “Don’t look so crestfallen, traveler. You and I both know that your story is not finished. Your paths will cross again, should you wish it.” 

There’s something the wolf isn’t telling him. The storyteller doesn’t ask; decides, one last time, to trust him. So he only responds with a soft, meaningful, “I do.”

Dire Wolf grins, knowing, and leans back in his chair. 

“Well, that is it, then. The last night of your journey. And here you go, off into a new adventure,” Dire Wolf tucks his deck of cards into his coat pocket, then meets his eye, the weight of his words sinking heavy and true as he speaks: “I hope the journey was valuable, and maybe the destination, as well. Farewell… _Charles._ ”

The last thing the storyteller sees is the flash of fangs, and a dark, endless night. 

He awakens to morning light streaming through the windowpane. He blinks, sits up off his bedroll to glance around the small, mostly empty shack. He doesn’t know how he ended up here, or where he even is, but it’s long abandoned. His coat is hanging off of the only other thing in the room: a chair, facing out the window, his bindle plopped on it. 

He rubs his hands over his face, trying to shake off some of the sleep still clinging to the edges of his mind. He’s not _tired_. In fact, he feels more rested than he has in months. He pulls his hands away and pauses, stares at the flesh he finds there. It looks unfamiliar, now, feels weird to pinch at skin and feel the muscles flex when he curls his fingers. Suppose there’s a lot of things he’s going to have to get used to again, without the wolf.

He crawls to his hands and knees, scooting over to kneel on the dusty rug so he can roll his bedroll up, tying it neatly and standing up to carry it over to tuck it into his bag. He pulls his coat on and hesitates when he feels something stiff and strange in the fabric. 

There’s something in his lapel pocket. 

He reaches into his jacket, and draws…

Another tarot card. 

The lovers. 

He laughs, wild; he can’t help himself. One of the wolf’s tricks, one last cryptic message to unravel? Or his own petty theft, seeking to obtain a memoir, or perhaps, a trophy? It doesn’t matter. He checks his lapel again, suddenly panicked, but is quickly relieved to feel the sunflower still carefully hidden away. He pulls it out. 

A petal falls off the head. 

He watches it float to the ground in horrified disbelief; thousands of miles he’d carried that flower and not one petal was lost. He looks between the flower and the petal, now two separate entities, misery gripping his heart with an iron vice. 

Until… the tarot card catches his eye, clutched tightly in his other hand. 

Curious, hoping for too much, he tugs a petal off the flower. It doesn’t give, stays stubbornly attached to the head. A rush of exhilaration nearly knocks him to his knees; though his soul is free of the wolf’s magic, he’s too familiar with it not to feel it planted deep within the flowerhead. 

He gathers his things, tucks the tarot card away, and keeps the sunflower pinched between his forefinger and his thumb. He exits the shack into the misty morning air, cool and dense against his skin. When he faces the west, another petal falls. 

He starts walking. 

Every few miles or so, a petal will fall. He usually follows the road, but sometimes it’ll lead him off the path, and petals will cease falling. He doubles back, then, changing direction here and there until the petals fall again. He loses track of how far he goes; eventually, he finds railroad tracks, when the sun is at its highest. Hope flickers in his chest as he walks, past fields of cows, past fields of sunflowers, past fields of corn, over rivers that melt into massive lakes, through towns that quickly burst into cities. 

All the while, petals fall.

The evening comes with scarlet skies and streaks of crimson. The Chicago skyline cuts a black silhouette in the distance. He’s been here several times before, back then. 

Weird to think fulfilling his debt to the wolf is a “ _back then”_ thing, now. 

Now… now, though. 

He shakes his head, follows the tracks into the station as another petal floats to the ground. 

He walks beside the tracks, passing through the busy streets like a ghost, until the crowds lessen and the city is behind him. 

Eventually, eventually, he comes upon a side road. 

He looks down at the remains of the flower pinched between his fingers, and the last three petals that still cling to the head.

He takes a deep breath, and follows the dirt path, cutting away from the tracks and drawing him towards the alluring call of crashing waves. 

The first petal falls when he sees it, a small white house with a deep blue roof, facing the water. His heart misses several beats. He pushes onward, fueled by unsteady determination and the distant sound of a train’s whistle. 

The second petal falls at the end of the driveway, near a smooth gray mailbox with rusty numbers stamped into the side. _208_ , though he saw no signs indicating the street’s name.

The last petal falls on the doorstep. 

He looks up at the door, and tucks the petal-free head of the sunflower back into the safety of his lapel. The steps _creak, creak, creak_ under his weight with each step. The sound of waves crashing against the shore intermingles with the rumble of the passing train on the nearby tracks as he stands there, face to face with… 

With trembling hands, he knocks on the door three times, and waits. 

His heart pounds loud and harsh with each second that passes. 

Then, it stops beating altogether, to hone in on the sound of the deadbolt unlocking. 

The door swings open, and _fuck,_ there’s Cassady, eyes wide and jaw slackening as their eyes meet. No rumbling storm clouds, no hands dragging down an empty, featureless face, no parchment flowing with words in languages he doesn’t know truly exist, no blood... None of it. Just Cass, looking terrified more than excited or happy, like a deer caught in headlights and frozen to train tracks. 

“It’s you,” Cass breathes, in clear disbelief. Then, he huffs an unsteady laugh. “I’d hoped we’d meet again.”

He looks well. Less haunted, more rested. He doesn’t have the same gauntness to his face that he had back on the road. The dark lines under his eyes betray the sleep he hasn’t been getting, but the safety of the roof over his head has eased some of the lines on his forehead. His hair’s trimmed up neatly, like he’s only just gotten it cut. And in this light, he’s _ethereal_ , like the heavens finally answered his immolated pain and honesty, like Apollo himself had heard his poetry and granted him peace and clarity. 

The traveler has to swallow around the thickness lodging in his throat. He hadn’t been sure that day, if that would be their final goodbye, but the relief of simply _seeing_ him again, of having another moment _together_... He doesn’t have much of a voice, has to clear it twice, three times, just to find it. And even then, he’s unsure where to begin, so he reaches into his lapel and retrieves the dried sunflower head, then holds it out in his open, trembling palm.

“If you’ve got the ear to listen, I’ve got one last story to share with you.” 

Cass blinks, recognition dawning on his face as he takes the remains of his flower. He side steps out of the doorway, allowing the traveler into his home. The storyteller pulls his hat off his head as he steps inside, leaning his bindle against the wall and taking in the place that Cass has apparently made his home.

The space he’s carved for himself is simple enough. There’s nothing on the fireplace mantle, and the furniture matches in a way that suggests they came with the home. A wide window looks out over the water; placed before it is an old, but beautiful, oak wood desk. Standing proudly in the middle is a typewriter, surrounded by papers and disarray. He can already picture the poet sitting there, hunched over, struck by inspiration. 

Cass leads him to sit on a dark green couch, then collects a still-lit cigarette from an ashtray, placed on the corner of the desk. The storyteller places his hat on the coffee table in front of him. When Cass comes to sit, as if on instinct, he offers his half-smoked cigarette to the traveler. Taking it, his hands brushing Cass’s feels foreign, different. Solid. 

“You found me just to share one story?” Cass asks, as the traveler pulls smoke deep into his lungs, his eyes falling closed as he exhales around the comfortingly familiar taste. He offers the cigarette back to Cass before his shaking hands end up dropping it. “Must be a good one.”

“Maybe not good. _Personal_ , more like,” he says. Cass looks into his eyes then, searching for answers. “You told me your story, I figured it was about time I returned the favor.” 

“Thought you were just keeping it private,” Cass says after a moment, an admission, laden with guilt. They don’t dare say a word, but the comparison to Silas and his obsessive privacy about his novel is crystal clear. He ashes his cigarette into a tray on the coffee table. “Why tell me now? Why not on the road?” 

“It wasn’t done yet.” 

“Mm.” Cass hums around a lungful of smoke, blows it slow off to the side. “So, what, it’s done now, then? Did the road end up goin’ nowhere for you, too?”

“Not nowhere,” the storyteller replies quietly, his eyes falling to the sunflower stem still pinched gently between Cass’s fingers. 

Cass glances between the flower and the storyteller, clearly rattled with some inner turmoil. He puts the remainder of his cigarette out in the ashtray.

The traveler wrings his hands, leans forward so his elbows are resting on his knees. He’s hyperaware of Cass watching him, how close they are without a campfire between them, how different he looks without the shadow of night and pain cast over his face. How much harder it is for him to speak, now.

“No matter what I tell you… Know that every word... it’s true. All of it,” he insists, until Cass nods. Then, the storyteller inhales slowly, gathering his composure, and tries to figure out where it all began.

Makes sense that the beginning would be the night of the card game with Dire Wolf. He figures that the stories of the person he was before that night no longer matter, for they are not about the man he is now. He tells Cass about swearing his word for the pot, and trading his freedom for the game. He explains his task from the wolf the best he can. Tells him about weaving the story of America, spreading the seeds of tales that will grow wild and untamed like the country itself. He talks about the wolf stripping away his flesh, but allowing him to continue feeling very much alive, no matter how many times he died. Cass’s brow furrows at that, like he’s not sure he believes it, but it’s quickly wiped away. So the storyteller carries on.

It’s odd, talking about himself, after spending so long _listening_ and telling everyone’s story but his own. 

Cass never interrupts, and he never stops talking. 

About travel. 

About people.

About death. 

About Cass. 

And about himself, having to play bystander, watching Cass suffer and pick himself up, ditch after ditch, silently cheering him on every step he took that put space between him and Silas, about hunting for the perfect stories that would lead Cass towards the sun again. About all the other stories, all the other people he’d met, and how Cass had always kept a special, distinct place tucked away somewhere in his ribcage. About all that _longing_ and _desire_ that never managed to reach across the campfire.

“I walked every mile of this country and heard every story there is to hear. Watched them grow, and watched them end. Watched all the roads my friends walked _end_ , while mine stretched on forever, with nothin’ but their trinket and their story to remember them by. And I was okay with it. I knew my task.”

He pauses, then, staring down at his hands.

“Still, I wasn’t prepared for how much yours ending hurt me as much as it did.” 

He can practically feel the cold chill that settles in the room; those were Cass’s words from his lips, not his own. But he doesn’t care anymore, about hiding the feelings that lingered long after Cass walked away. 

“I wished so desperately that it wasn’t goodbye. I’d already said goodbye to so many, and I would carry on to say goodbye to so many more, so I’d selfishly wished our goodbye wouldn’t last. It hurt to accept what I already knew was true, but I had to carry on, anyway. I had to carry your story, tell your tale, repay the wolf’s debt. But I kept your sunflower right here,” he pats a hand over his heart, the lapel where the sunflower had stayed for his journey, “and that was only for me.” 

He wrings his hands again. His admission is only just above a whisper when he speaks.

“Got to the point where I couldn't smoke no cigarette that didn’t taste like you.”

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to stop telling stories with such detail. They fall from his lips without thinking, weaving honesty in between the tapestries. Betraying his own sense of reason for the sake of the truth, battered and beaten as it is. Cass is letting him speak, but part of him wishes he’d stop him, wishes he knew what he was thinking. The only way to get that, though, would be to finish his story. 

So he does just that. 

He moves on, and eventually arrives at his final evening, dying alone by an outlaw’s last fire in the unforgiving Arizona desert, returning to the card table, sitting across the Dire Wolf shuffling his deck of cards. He recounts what matters, his own release from their contract, his complete freedom from the wolf’s tricks, and… hesitantly, his own favor from the wolf: trading his name for help finding Cass one last time. He lays his cards out on the table, here, for the final hand. 

“I found myself at the end of an endless journey, and all I wanted was to share another night with you.”

The storyteller sits up, gesturing in front of himself. “That’s all that’s left. No more contract, no more road, no more stories, no more… just, no more.” He shakes his head. Nothing left but a name and the yearning that burned a hole in his heavy, lonely heart. “Just _Charles_ , looking for the right words that let the road end here.” He hesitates, strangely focused on the laces of Cass’s shoes, worn and brown, then adds, softly: “If you’ll have me.”

That’s the end of it, then. There’s nothing left to tell. 

The room is unnervingly silent between the hammering of his heart against his ribcage, threatening to break out and run for the door. 

“Charles,” Cass breathes, shaky.

Charles finally turns his head to meet his eye, to face the last line of his tale, whatever it may be. 

Cassady’s fingertips brush his chin, coming to trail along his jawline, feather-light in their touch until they cup the back of his neck, and that’s all the warning he gets before Cass is rushing forward to kiss him. 

It’s firm, insistent, hungry; Cass kisses him like his life depends on it, like he’s got to convince him to reciprocate, like there’s still something left to prove. Charles yields on instinct, his lips parting with an inaudible gasp at the staggering headiness of it all, dizzy from the rush of emotions all trying to get to the forefront of his mind first. Relief, joy, desire, shock, desperation, _euphoria_ , all kicking up fierce until his eyes slip closed to stave off the vertigo. 

Cass’s mouth chases after his, like he’s determined to take the breath from his lungs and replace it with his own, the hand on the back of his neck holding him steady in place. Not that Charles tries to go anywhere; on the contrary, he tilts his head if only to offer a more comfortable angle, his hands reaching out to settle on the indent of Cass’s waist, soothing his thumbs over his sides. Cass softens, then, when he isn’t spurned or shoved aside, their kiss melting into something kinder, bolder, unafraid, his other hand coming to cup Charles’s jaw. 

When they separate, it’s with great reluctance, their faces mere inches apart, but they look at one another with all the wonder that comes with clarity and the relief of crash landing somewhere safe. Cass’s thumb brushes along his cheekbone; he leans into the touch, relishing in the soft warmth of being treated with such gentleness. 

“Charles,” Cass murmurs his name like a prayer, then repeats it several more times, planting soft, brief kisses against his lips between each one, “ _Charles, Charles..._ ,” and _oh,_ how his heart sings, trembling at the beauty of what may be his. 

“I can’t believe you found me. All the poetry in the world couldn’t express how _scared_ I was we’d never cross paths again. No matter how hard I tried,” Cass finally admits, his voice cracking in the middle, his head tilting just so that his eyes can slide over to the typewriter and the papers strewn around it. “I know I said what I said about Silas. I know I made all that talk about meditation, and cutting off desires, and letting go, and going your separate ways, but I don’t want that.” His eyes meet Charles’s, says again, quieter, “I don’t want that.”

Charles’s fingertips trail idly along the seam of Cass’s shirt, almost mindlessly casual, if he wasn’t so hyperaware of himself and the space he’s taking up right now. Cass’s thumb rests on the pulse point on his neck, and Charles is certain he can feel his heart beating jackrabbit-fast, like it’s trying to reach him, to close what little distance is left between them. 

“What do you want, then, dear poet?” Charles asks, his voice full of gentle hope. 

“I want you to stay here with me,” Cass affirms, brushes his cheek with his thumb again, tender, adoring. “I want your voice calling my name and telling your tales, your hand in mine when I watch the trains go by, your stories to inspire my poetry, your hat hung by my door and not going anywhere; after everything we’ve told each other, what else could I want but _you_?” 

His hands land on Cass’s shoulders and slide along his collarbone to meet in the middle as he brushes his lips along Cass’s temple. The fingertips of his right hand slip between the buttons of his shirt, just to feel his heart rate speed up against them.

“I’m yours,” Charles promises him. Says it again, and again, and again, to feel alive, to feel _everything_. 

When Charles awakens the next morning, sunlight is streaming through the curtains and the duvet is piled on top of him. The other side of the bed is empty. 

He throws the blanket off and sits up, takes stock of the unfamiliar room. The wood floor is cool against his feet as he swings his legs over the bed and gets up to find Cassady. He makes his ways down the stairs, listening for any indicator of where his companion may be. When he rounds the corner of the last step, he exhales in relief. Cass is at his desk, bent over and scribbling away. He pauses long enough to watch him; he looks serene, here, content. 

Charles crosses the room, silent, until he’s close enough to gently rest his hands on Cass’s shoulders, drawn like a magnet to north.

Cass tilts his head up, his smile already forming. “Hey, good morning,” he greets, full of fondness that makes his heart _sing_ as Charles leans down to kiss him. “Sorry for leaving you alone in bed. I just wanted to get everything down.” He gestures to the papers before him, filled even in the margins with notes. 

“It's good to see you writing,” Charles tells him, gently kneading at the tension in Cass’s neck with his thumbs.

“I wrote everything down this time. I didn’t want to make the same mistakes with you that I made with Silas.” 

Charles hums approvingly, reaching past Cass to pick up one of the papers pushed off to the floor. He flips it over to find writing on both sides. 

“Which one is that?” Cass asks, nodding to the paper.

“It doesn’t have a title.” Not one he can seem to find, anyway.

“Most of them don’t,” Cass replies, leaning back in his chair. Charles skims the poem and relays back to Cassady the story it tells: the frozen wasteland, the bloody paw prints in the snow, the lynx’s eyes shining bright in the darkness. 

“It’s beautiful,” Charles murmurs. 

“It’s about you,” Cass informs him. 

He looks it over again, places his own footprints where the lynx’s are, feels the blood from a million footsteps in his palms. Cassady’s voice is _breathtaking_ on paper, his words captivating and raw. He folds the paper into a square carefully and tucks it away into a pocket, filled to the brim with adoration. Cass’s smile is small, but ever-present as he stands up from his desk and wraps his arms around Charles’s waist. 

“Why don’t we go into town for breakfast?” Cass offers. “There’s this place on Albany I always wanted to show you.”

A change of clothes and a shared cigarette later, they lock up and head into the city. 

His hat stays hung by the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they lived happily ever after. :)
> 
> for those wondering, "Charles" means free man; the wolf is basically acknowledging that he's free of all magic and debt.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [a man: no skin, all bone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25734082) by [artesiaminor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artesiaminor/pseuds/artesiaminor)




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